


what's behind and what's before

by witching



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 07:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "In any case, it was what they had. It was what they’d always had, really: each other. And how funny, how ironic it was, after six thousand years of saving each other and denying it meant anything, getting closer and then driving a wedge between them, selfishly and defensively drawing attention to their differences, how magical that their saving grace was in becoming each other."





	what's behind and what's before

**Author's Note:**

> given that aziraphale canonically prefers to buy real clothes rather than manifest them from thin air, and given the tartan-collared jacket he was wearing when he was in hell as crowley, i thought to myself: where and when and how and why did he have that? and then i had a lot of feelings about it.  
> title is from mumford & sons' "after the storm"

Aziraphale was having  _ fun  _ with this. He felt as if the whole earth had been pulled out from underneath his feet and all that was left was a swirling vortex of uncertainty, but he would be damned if he wasn’t going to have fun with this. In fact, he might be damned, regardless. He just didn’t know, and that was terrifying, the not knowing, but what little he  _ did  _ know was not much reassurance. The only solid, grounding thought in his head was the reminder, steady like a heartbeat, that he and Crowley were in this together.

They’d discussed it only briefly, using a coded language that neither of them spoke fluently, a system of cryptic phrases with hidden double and triple meanings, and several loud quirks of the eyebrows and nods of the head. The walls had ears, even in Crowley’s flat, and if there was only one time in their entire eternal lives that they could not afford to be caught, it was now. So they planned it discreetly, so discreetly that Aziraphale wasn’t even sure he could rightly call it a  _ plan, _ so much as a half-baked idea and a series of assumptions. 

In any case, it was what they had. It was what they’d always had, really: each other. And how funny, how ironic it was, after six thousand years of saving each other and denying it meant anything, getting closer and then driving a wedge between them, selfishly and defensively drawing attention to their differences, how  _ magical  _ that their saving grace was in  _ becoming  _ each other. 

Aziraphale appreciated the poetry of it all. Crowley would have laughed at that, once, but now – well, now, Aziraphale thought he might even venture to mention it out loud, if they made it out of this alright. The Crowley who would laugh at his romanticism would be left behind, with the Aziraphale who would feel those things and never say them; when this was all over, they would be fresh and free. But that was on the other side of a very narrow bridge.

On this side of that bridge, there was the world made new. Aziraphale didn’t need to see the Bentley or the bookshop in order to know that they were back and in perfect condition. There was a distinct  _ feeling  _ that he sensed as soon as he woke up, the tangy sort of flavor that hangs in the air after you do a bit of deep cleaning, only it was the entire world that had been scrubbed. It wasn’t perfect, Adam didn’t fix everything, but the top layer of grime was gone, the nightmarish disasters of the previous day undone. 

It was good, for a great many obvious reasons, but particularly because Aziraphale wanted to have fun with this, and having the bookshop back, with all its trappings and then some, made it a lot easier to shelf a bit of his anxiety. He thought it might be good luck to wear something that was special, in some way. Clothing had always been important to him, and it was especially important in his current state, physically and emotionally. 

Emotionally, he craved the small boost of confidence that came with wearing something he truly loved. It had nothing to do with how it looked, nothing to do with praise or validation, everything to do with how it made him feel. And he was scared, now, and that tiny joy would help him face what was about to happen.

Physically, well. Physically, he was  _ Crowley, _ and he needed to dress like Crowley and act like Crowley and walk like Crowley and talk like Crowley, or else they were both utterly screwed. And it just so happened that he had the perfect thing, the  _ perfect  _ thing, to bring it all together. The perfect thing: something Crowley would wear, but with a touch of his own fashion. Something that would give him that hint of power. Something  _ fun.  _ And it was tucked in the back of a closet in the bookshop.

Aziraphale breathed a reverent sigh as he lifted the garment from the box. It felt wrong, somehow, and it took him a long moment to realize that it was because the sigh had come from Crowley’s lungs and escaped Crowley’s mouth, and all the sensations were different. He moved past it quickly, shrugging on the jacket and examining his reflection. He didn’t waste too much time in front of the mirror, not admiring the image; that would be worse than pride, it was  _ Crowley’s  _ body. Besides which, he was going to be late for a very important meeting with a strawberry lolly.

 

When all was said and done, when their plan had gone off without a hitch, Aziraphale allowed himself some self-satisfaction about his wardrobe choice: the tartan collar was exactly what he needed. He managed to pull off all the cool, casual confidence that Crowley always pretended to have, even in the face of what he presumed were some of Hell's worst: he quipped, he smirked, he bantered. He used his "last words" to make an arrogant remark about his new jacket, he asked for a rubber duck, he made the archangel Michael miracle him a bath towel. He had  _ fun.  _

And then – and then they were on a bench in Berkeley Square, and Crowley flipped his collar up to adjust it, and it was red, like it usually was, and Aziraphale couldn't help a twinge of disappointment. He had expected the snarky comment about the tartan, but he had hoped, deep down, that Crowley might keep it. But he didn't, and that was okay, Aziraphale supposed, just a bit… a bit of a let down, considering. 

And then they were at the Ritz, and Aziraphale thought maybe something was – different, somehow. Crowley didn't protest when Aziraphale called him a good person, didn't even make a face at him, or at least not the face he usually would have pulled. He simply replied in kind, called Aziraphale a  _ bastard, _ in an inscrutable tone. Smiled at him. Raised a glass to the world. Aziraphale tried not to show how awed and wondered he felt at the demon’s oddly subdued attitude, though he thought to himself he couldn’t really be surprised by it, considering how drastically everything had changed.

He managed to hold his tongue throughout their entire meal, a feat he wasn’t sure he would be able to accomplish. But then Crowley stood up to leave, and Aziraphale caught another glimpse of the red fabric of his collar, and he thought about going back to the bookshop and letting Crowley drive away, back to his flat, thought about the both of them returning to their ordinary lives, alone, and he couldn't not say something.

"It was for you, you know," he said, trying to keep his tone light and friendly, even as his breath hitched because Crowley had taken his arm to walk together as if it were only natural.

Crowley didn't turn to look at him, but Aziraphale felt a falter in his step. "What was?"

"The -" Aziraphale cleared his throat as they stepped outside and the glare from the sun made it all the harder to see Crowley’s expression behind his glasses, "the jacket. The, erm… the tartan."

"How do you mean, it was for me?" Crowley walked around the car, going out of his way to open the door for Aziraphale.

Struggling for a moment with whether or not he wanted to tell the truth, Aziraphale hesitated. He slid into the Bentley's passenger seat, watched as Crowley sauntered around to the driver's side. But once Crowley was seated, he gave him that expectant look, the look that comes when one has asked a question and is patiently waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "I had the jacket already, I didn't manifest it. I had it because I bought it for you."

His lips quirking up with the barest hint of a smile, Crowley drove with his gaze fixed firmly on Aziraphale. “You don’t  _ buy  _ me things, angel,” he drawled.

“But I did,” Aziraphale stated plainly.

Several expressions flitted across Crowley’s face in rapid succession and settled on confusion, his brow knitted, his lips pressed together for a moment before he spoke in a low murmur. “Why?”

“It’s, er. Well, it’s a bit hard to explain,” Aziraphale said. “It’s silly, honestly.”

“Go on, then, I could use a laugh,” Crowley replied quietly.

Aziraphale frowned, contemplating how best to explain, and how to do it so Crowley wouldn’t actually laugh at him, because he was afraid that might break him. “You see,” he began, speaking with caution, looking intently at his hands in his lap, “it was 1994. You remember 1994?”

“About six years before Y2K? Four years post-1990? Rings a bell, yeah.”

"Yes," Aziraphale said, stifling a strong urge to roll his eyes. "You begged me to let you come with me to the signing of the Kremlin Accords."

"Did not," Crowley interrupted, whining like a petulant child. "I did  _ not  _ beg."

Aziraphale laughed so softly it was barely a breath. "Alright, you politely requested that I bring you along, then. Point is, I was going to say yes. So I bought the jacket, as a… a gesture of goodwill."

"Goodwill?" Crowley shook his head.

"Yes, Crowley, goodwill. I thought if I did something nice for you, you might…"

"Might what?"

"Might not try interfering in one of the most significant diplomatic events of the decade."

Crowley snorted as he pulled up in front of the bookshop and parked the car. "I wasn't going to  _ interfere, _ angel," he said dryly. "Just wanted to do something fun, see something interesting. Wanted to meet Clinton, you know."

"Right," Aziraphale deadpanned. 

Crowley looked at him, looked as if he might say something important, opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed to himself. "Anyway," he continued, speaking with a false cheer in his voice, "what changed, then?"

"Changed?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, climbing out of the car, again walking around to open Aziraphale's door for him. "You didn't let me come with you," he pointed out, "and you didn't give me the jacket. Why’s that?”

Aziraphale frowned deeply. He hadn’t considered that, honestly. He had almost forgotten whatever insignificant spat it was that had made him decide to leave Crowley behind for the event, to keep the gift buried in his closet for twenty-five years. Almost, but not quite. 

“It was – you – you don’t, er, remember?” he floundered, stumbling over the words and hoping beyond hope that Crowley wouldn’t make him explain the whole thing.

“If I remembered,” Crowley replied, a bit testily, “I wouldn’t have to ask, would I?”

Aziraphale deflated, casting his eyes downward, resigning himself to dredging up a skillfully hidden piece of the past, one he would rather have forgotten, in order to satiate the demon’s curiosity. “No, I suppose not,” he mumbled. “It was such a little thing, really, I feel dreadfully silly for my behavior,” he continued, stalling, his voice rising in pitch with every word. “You were just – I mean, not begging, of course, but you were so insistent, weren’t you. And there was one day, we were at lunch, or maybe it was dinner, I don’t recall. We were somewhere, and you were trying to convince me – tempting, I think is the proper term – and you, erm.” 

Aziraphale paused, realizing abruptly that they had somehow made their way to the back room of the bookshop, that Crowley seemed to be getting comfortable, the way he sometimes would when they didn’t have plans, on those occasions when he might drink a few too many bottles and fall asleep on Aziraphale’s kitschy old sofa. He thought once more about the possibility of Crowley leaving, going back to his own place, leaving Aziraphale here by himself, nothing to keep him company but his books and that sofa, which he owned solely for Crowley’s benefit. But they were here, weren’t they? Crowley didn’t seem like he was planning on leaving anytime soon. Aziraphale shook his head, told himself he was being ridiculous, it was a ridiculous, irrational fear.

Crowley wouldn’t leave, he was sure of it. It had happened before, but only because Aziraphale had put up so many walls, pushed Crowley away, and away and away, until his only choice was to run, to get some space to breathe. Aziraphale was not pushing anymore, not now, not ever again. 

He looked back up and met Crowley’s gaze, his sunglasses set aside and his yellow eyes intense and questioning. He took a deep breath. “You said, ‘Aren’t you going to miss me?’”

Crowley continued simply looking at him, looking  _ into  _ him. It was beginning to make Aziraphale’s skin hot, feeling himself being watched so closely. He should have been used to it, coming from Crowley, but it always made him feel exposed, vulnerable. And he  _ was, _ this time, truly showing his cards, and every passing second brought a new struggle against the urge to hide, like he always had done before. 

“I didn’t like that,” Aziraphale said lamely, but he saw the understanding in Crowley’s eyes. “You know – you know I never liked it, when you said things like that.”

Crowley murmured a response that was not quite a word, a sort of grunt of affirmation. The angel's use of the past tense did not escape his notice.

"It was… an overreaction, perhaps," Aziraphale admitted. "But that was why I didn't want to let you go with me. And I couldn't just give you a gift like that for no reason, so I kept it."

Crowley gave a knowing hum, a slow nod. "Well, alright. Can't say I'm surprised."

"So…" Aziraphale fiddled with his fingers in his lap, steadfastly avoiding eye contact, and trailed off, embarrassed. 

Crowley cocked his head to the side, frowning. "What, angel?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat before speaking, slow and quiet. "I mean, when we swapped back… I was wearing it, and then… you weren't wearing it."

"Oh," Crowley said blankly. "I don't think I did that. Did you do that?"

"Er, I don't know,” Aziraphale replied. “Certainly not on purpose."

Crowley looked deep in thought for a long moment. "Well, it had to go somewhere, didn't it?"

Aziraphale nodded, then jerked his head back as he caught up with the conversation and all its implications. "Do you – do you  _ want  _ the jacket?"

“Course I want it,” Crowley said, as if it were obvious, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "You hear someone got you a gift, you want the gift, yeah?"

Aziraphale puzzled over it for a moment. "You'd never wear it," he said, sounding completely resigned to the fact. 

"Ten minutes ago, I'd have said the same thing," Crowley conceded lightly. "But ten minutes ago, I'd also have said you'd never get me a gift. Circumstances change, angel."

Scanning the demon's face closely, Aziraphale pursed his lips and furrowed his brow deeply. He saw the look behind Crowley's eyes, reading him in a rare moment of selfless intuition. "What are you not telling me?" 

Crowley shifted in his seat, tucking his legs underneath him and fiddling with the knot of his scarf, looking for all the world like he’d been caught misbehaving. “S’nothing, angel,” he mumbled guiltily, a hint of a flush creeping into his cheeks. “Nothing you want to hear.”

“That’s not very fair,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward in his chair, his lower lip jutting out in an offended little pout. He watched the demon intently, concern washing over him in gentle waves, just barely edging out his indignation. “We’re friends, Crowley.”

“Oh, of course we are,” Crowley replied with an exaggerated nod, a sweeping gesture of his arms. “Of course, yes, we’re friends when  _ you  _ decide we’re friends, that’s how this works, isn’t it? Pardon me for forgetting.”

Aziraphale recoiled at his tone, a storm churning in his chest.  _ Too fast, too fast, _ his mind screamed at him; the climate of the conversation had changed too fast, he couldn’t keep up, couldn’t follow Crowley’s shifting moods, couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. 

“My dear boy, I –”

“No,” Crowley cut him off with a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “No, don’t do that. Two days ago, you stood in front of me and told me we weren’t friends. You told me it was over. I gave up, Aziraphale, do you understand that?”

Shrinking back into himself, Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m not sure I do,” he mumbled, ashamed.

“I was never going to run away to Alpha bloody Centauri,” Crowley snapped. “Not without you. I just thought, you know, end of the world, no way to win, would be nice to know, before we die. Would have been nice to know that you’d have gone with me, if it came to that.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and it sounded inadequate, even to him.

Crowley heaved an earth-shattering sigh and leaned back, resting his head on the arm of the sofa, folding his arms across his chest and letting his eyes drift shut. “I’m just saying, it’s nice that you got me a thoughtful gift twenty-five years ago, but it doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice low and ragged. “I’m tired, angel.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeated lamely. 

“I know you are.” Crowley opened his eyes, turning his head to face the angel, and he looked exhausted. “And you know I’ll keep waiting, as long as you need, but…”

His chest constricting, suddenly gripped with a visceral fear, Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut tight, bracing for a blow. “But what?”

Crowley seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then the words spilled out of him like a leaky fountain pen. “But… it’s been six thousand years,” he said wretchedly. “I mean, if the end of the world won’t do it, what’ll it take for you to catch up? I can be patient, angel, really I can, but if I’m waiting for something that’ll never happen, could you just tell me? Please?”

“You’re not,” said Aziraphale, practically a whisper. “I am trying, Crowley.”

“I don’t need you to meet me halfway,” Crowley murmured, “just stop pushing back so hard. I’ll come to you, I always have, but you’ve got to let me.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard around a lump in his throat. “I don’t know how,” he said thickly. “You know I care for you very deeply, Crowley, but there’s a lot – there’s so much to consider. I don’t know how to stop it from being too much.”

Crowley shook his head fondly, shooting him a sad smile. “Any amount is too much,” he said wryly, “but you’re historically better with actions than with words, yeah? So next time I ask if you’re going to miss me when you go away, you don’t have to say yes, but you could still give me the gift, if you’ve already bought it.” Pausing to think, he stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “And next time I ask you to run away with me,” he continued, in the same warm tone, “you don’t have to say yes, but you could  _ stay  _ with me.”

“I think I can do that,” Aziraphale said, allowing a small smile in return. He made a small, flourishing gesture with his hand, then leaned down and picked up a long, white box from the floor. “In the meantime, I did manage to feel out where this got sent off to,” he said, presenting the box to Crowley, who sat up to receive it, “and I thought you might like to have it, even if it is a bit late.”

Aziraphale watched intently as Crowley opened the box with gentle, reverent hands, pulling the jacket out to admire it. It was just like the jackets he wore every day, a classic, timeless cut and color, with a pop of character under the collar, only this – this was not  _ his  _ character, it was  _ theirs. _ He stroked the tartan lining, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Thank you, angel,” he said, sounding so satisfied that it almost veered into smugness.

Aziraphale thought about the jacket, thought about the apocalypse, thought about holy water and Hamlet and rainbows and churches lost in the Blitz. He thought about Hell, crowded and dirty and loud, and he thought about how many armageddons he would be willing to face, if he could be sure Crowley would never have to go there again. He thought about how afraid he’d been just minutes before that Crowley would leave, that things would go back to the way they’d always been. He thought about Agnes Nutter, very briefly, and then he thought about Crowley, very deeply.

“You know,” he spoke up at last, remembering something he’d wanted to say much earlier, “I think it’s rather fitting, us swapping places like that. Rather poetic.”

Crowley looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You think?”

Aziraphale nodded his head. “I do,” he said earnestly. “I mean, the fact that our friendship was what saved us, what got us out from under the thumb of Heaven and Hell… I suppose it serves to demonstrate that we’re not so different, really.”

“We’re not?” Crowley laughed, truly laughed, from deep down in his belly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes, I know, I’m very much behind,” Aziraphale said with a sigh of fondness and exasperation, “but I think I’m beginning to get there.” Seeing the way Crowley’s eyes lit up, his gaze fixed on the angel’s face, fingers still roaming the fabric of the jacket sitting in his lap, Aziraphale beamed back at him, and just for a moment, he forgot every excuse and every reason for caution.

“Would you like to stay the night?” he asked before he could stop himself. 

It felt bold, even though Crowley slept at the bookshop more often than not. Aziraphale had never  _ asked  _ before. He’d never before taken the demon by the hand and led him up the stairs into his bedroom, where there was a  _ bed. _ He’d never before lay down in the bed with Crowley, allowing their bodies to intertwine, just to touch, just to be close. Those were his intentions now, with this question, and he could see in Crowley’s face, as he breathlessly nodded an affirmation, that he understood all of it.


End file.
